The Way the World Ends
by Sonosan
Summary: SHEP/TALI-PARAGON-DESTROY ENDING-SHEP LIVES PART 2: Showdown in Jungle-GARRUS VS MAJOR COATS- SHEPARD ON HIS WAY TO LONDON TO USE ALLIANCEHQ QUANTUM ENTANGLER, TRYING TO FIND CREW. BLOOD PACK HIDING SOMETHING BIG IN GOBI DESERT, CENTRAL ASIA. REVIEWS PRZ
1. Chapter 1

The Way The World Ends

By Samuel Mansfield

_First chapter starts below; reading Author's note/Disclaimer not necessary to begin reading._

_Skip ahead to begin/_

Disclaimer/Author's Note: By writing this, naturally I make no claim as to the ownership of Mass Effect, the Mass Effect Trilogy, or anything pertaining to the franchise. However, I would like to make it known, that while conventionally, this still is a fanfiction, the premise for it revolves around an idea which was originally conceived and ultimately adopted by me through much speculation on the ending of Mass Effect 3. (In my second playthrough of the game, and Insanity play through too, I even took notes. My friends have made fun of me for doing this ever sense, much to my chagrin, obviously) Still, I hope that the summer-slated release of the Mass Effect 3: _Extended Cut_ will vindicate these theories in which this story will be built upon, but in the event that it does not, the nature of Mass Effect and of Commander Shepard—specifically how he envisioned by us, or me—the player-, allows me to forge my own cannon, especially in the absence of anything to contradict the telling of this story.

Still, it is a story to tell, all the same. I've always loved storytelling, and have always considered myself at least very passionate towards the art of storytelling, regardless of the medium used to tell it. In fact, the medium is the most fascinating part of it; it what's gets me to do something like write this story. I do it for myself, mostly; for practice and to make sure my writing is still fresh after all these years of fearing to do something like this again. There's a spectrum to it, and I know I'm rambling at this point, but is it important. If anyone reading this is familiar with the play _The Seagull_ by Anton Chekhov, then you should be able to see where one side of that spectrum ends. Writing is fun, and I love doing this, but writing is just as much scary as well. A reenactment of the end of the Seagull, in which the protagonist—if you could call him that— who is himself, also an aspiring writer but stifled by the actions of an oblivious mother, who's tragic flaw is her own success, goes nonchalantly into the room leading out of his study, and just as casually ends his life off-stage signified by the firing of a gun. One moment, he's working; making progress, and finding his old spark, being critical of his own work in, at least, somewhat of a constructive manner. The next, after a… less than ideal reunion with his old childhood flame—a girl who left him for his own step dad, who was also accomplished author, yet not content with his own personal life- or his sex life too, for that matter—and ruined hers in the process. She comes back, a shell of her former self, having dealt with a miscarriage who would have been a bastard anyways, and all the while, receives no support of any kind from the father, as well as the enabler of the entire affair: the protagonist's step father. The Author. So she comes through the protagonist's window one night, running in a fluster, nor making any real sense. All she can seem to arrive upon is the imagery of a seagull which the protagonist killed for her in their youth because he loved her, but she was enraptured by his step dad, which effectively turns the protagonist into the sort of man he is by the play's… less than desirable conclusion. The kind of man who would kill himself. Offstage.

His death comes as but a footnote in the tragedy of such an… uncomfortable existence. However, it is in the nature of the execution… or we'll say, the way the deed is… carried out… is the most terrifying aspect of all of this, and therefore, the reason why most of my ideas towards picking up my pen again would take place in the small hours of the morning, where I would indulge in the fruitless endeavor of finding sleep when I couldn't even find my own train of thought, for it can easily, and in any event, will always outlast me, pushing forward into a hazy realm that my mind can only fail miserably to try to keep pace with— a straggler in my own land. A slave to my thoughts: things as interminable as they were implacable. Like Dante's circle of hell for Lust, where its denizens, if you can call them that, are carried about on the winds of their own passion. So was I for my own passions, as unreliable as they were, for they're constantly influenced by the things that influence me. Like Mass Effect.

So I won't just fall asleep, trying to neglect these thoughts that should drive me. I won't fall asleep with a title of some book or story or just an idea on my minds dry, cracked lips. I will lead my imagination back to the water… To a world weary author's watering hole, where the storyteller's true vocation is symbiotic in its relationship to the author's soul: to his spirit.

And so, as I finally can call to mind the importance of digression, I will facilitate all the brevity I'm privy to or capable of, which is to say, most likely none, and finally begin the telling of this tale.

Things to be aware of:

Almost uniformly paragon in all choices, I won't go and make a list, but if anyone would like one, I could simply take down all the variables that my game shows whenever I choose to port it into a new game. However, I'm sure you can expect what decisions those would be.

NOTE: THIS IS **NOT **AN ALTERNATE ENDING. THIS EXPOUNDS OF THE ENDING OF MASS EFFECT 3, REGARDLESS OF HOW "UNVIABLE" IT MIGHT SEEM TO ANYONE WHO WOULD THINK IT'S NOT SUITABLE FOR A NEW STORY. MASS EFFECT 3 WAS THE END OF SHEPARD'S TRILOGY, BUT IT IS **NOT** THE ENDING OF MASS EFFECT. WITH MATURITY, A SENSIBLE MIND, AND EVEN A LITTLE FAITH IN BIOWARE, WHO UP TO THIS POINT HAS ALWAYS CATERED TO OUR NEEDS—BUT MOSTLY WANTS—EVEN WHEN WE WEREN'T SURE WHAT EXACTLY IT WAS WE WANTED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

IF ANYTHING, WHETHER THIS TURNS OUT TO BE CANON OR NOT, IT WILL SERVE TO PROVE THIS POINT.

UNSHACKLE YOUR MIND FROM THE STUBBORN NUANCES THAT REIGN OVER YOUR ABILITY TO PERCEIVE MASS EFFECT.

MASS EFFECT IS WHAT IT IS, FOR BETTER OR WORSE.

AND WHAT IT IS, REGARDLESS OF YOUR VISION FOR THE UNIVERSE…

IS THAT WAY, AND MADE THAT WAY, DUE TO THE CONSTANT MINDFULNESS AND THE NEED TO CONSIDER…

WHAT IT COULD ONE DAY BE.

Samuel "Sam" Mansfield,

In the wee hours of a Saturday morning.

**THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS.**

**CHAPTER ONE: **

**THE WAY A DEAD MAN FEELS.**

Anderson was sure he was dead by now. Or maybe it was that he hoped instead? Hoping for something and knowing something was, to Anderson—whenever both were inclusive to each other- like trying to mix water and oil. But, hell. Maybe water and oil would mix these days, considering everything else that's happened at this point, thanks to Shepard.

To start, a Salarian of all things cured the near fifteen hundred year-long tyranny of the Genophage, the Krogan sterility plague, who he himself had helped modify during his time with Salarian Special Tasks Group, or the STG. The Salarian himself—an acquaintance of the Commander, gave his life to release the cure into Tuchanka's atmosphere, via an old Salarian facility, The Shroud, which pre-dates the Rachni Wars and built presumably sometime after the two species' first contact, and was used for the renewal and restoration of the planet's atmosphere, which was all but decimated after the Krogan first split the atom, and made the planet's surface, for the most part, largely uninhabitable. Later it was used to maintain and modify the Genophage, like the aforementioned Genophage Modification Project the Salarian STG had worked on, and now most recently, as a final insult to The Shroud's original intent and design—as well as the intent of those Salarians who originally designed it to begin with. Since the release of the cure, the Salarian government has gone largely dark, content to guard their own borders rather than help the rest of us fight, whilst meanwhile, even the Turians and Krogan are even capable of coexistence. Hell! The Krogan had almost been immediately deployed right after the cure was released, and the Krogan of Tuchanka mobilized the clans to bring the fight back to Palaven. Palaven—of all places!

Not only that, but the Quarians made peace with Geth, after three centuries of exile, and then all-out war, and then only curbed by the rhetoric of the galaxy most gifted diplomat who ever learned how to hold a gun: Commander Shepard. Commander John Shepard, the man whose name is on everyone's lips these days, and not just humans'.

In hindsight, it's fortunate that he's probably the only of his kind. A soldier, and a peacemaker. Something every politician strived to be known as; to keep up appearances, you know. That being said, the ambitions of most, if not all of the politicians and public officials that Anderson had the misfortune of having to spend his political career making nice with, even as short-lived as it was, were deadly and poisonous enough where adding actual _armament_ to it would just be downright gratuitous. _Overkill._

The fact that this wasn't the case, even amidst this war, was something for which Anderson was very grateful.

_I'd rather die than have to attend even one more of those damned formal functions. Seeing every lobbyist and bureaucrat chasing somebody's ambulance… anyone's ambulance… shouting through a smile akin to Shakespeare's proverbial monsters of the Deep: perforcing upon themselves... Hell, all you would need then would be the fire and brimstone, and you'd have your own personalized Hell, because their teeth might as well be gnashing what with the influx of political bullshit making its way through that death-lock of smile—which is more akin snarl of a predator—and then escaping into the final frontier—the unfortunate sods who actually indulged in playing their little mind games—and I don't mean the ones who actually have own their own angle to it. No, not them—if anything, they probably still at least keep an ear to the ground..._

_No. I mean the ones who sincerely believe these people, and whatever nonsense they're deciding to feed them that particular day, and in doing so, enable them to make the rest of our lives generally as miserable as possible, because without the little people, their private empires would fall like a house of cards._

_With all the politically correct hogwash and formalities and all that— it just make you want to regress back into a sort of primal barbarism, if only just to prove to them were all still animals, and our bestial nature can't be dismissed by simply choosing not acknowledge it entirely, and even the best grin from the most unscrupulous individual, be him a politician or not, cannot mask the beast that stalks the shadows of your mind, pushing you into corners you could never imagine to be so uncomfortable, but still can be seen in the smile, the eyes—even the handshake. You can put lip stick on a pig—yeah. But too bad the pig smells like a French whorehouse. It's the Achilles heel of political cosmetics: a winning smile, but what's this all about integrity? _**_Integrity_**_? Oh what a _**_novel_**_ concept. Let's do try it sometime!_

_Yeah. I'd rather die, that's for sure… which I guess must be fortunate._

_Because I'm dying._

Anderson laughed, and almost instantly after, wished that he didn't. His body was wracked in pain; subdued by an implacable fatigue that was seemingly inescapable. Immune to any sort of evasion—psychological or otherwise. It wasn't something he could skirt around, like, say, a mine field, for example.

_A minefield would be like shore-leave, at this point,_ Anderson thought to himself.

_Would be something I could at least… work with…_

Anderson sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh.

_Because I'm so God damn tired... And..._

_And... because I'm dying._

_..._

_And here I was hoping I was already dead. Shit… _

_Here I wished it was already over. Over and done. Done with—God I'm so ready for this to be all over… I've never felt so.. so tired…_

But then Anderson realized… and with realizing, he knew. And with knowing that he knew, the Hope he had felt not only moments ago, it died— almost casually so; nonchalantly suffocating inside the very vessel that was supposed to act as the medium in which it was carried? And the effort it took to do such a thing? The effort it took to hope for anything? To house such an circumstantially unwelcome guest on the very cornerstone where your very essence was originally forged? It's the origin— or simply, that which makes us who we are. Keeping a hope housed in the glass confinements of a soul that's already threatened with its own problems could bring the whole thing crashing down, and in retrospect, not worth taking. There wouldn't much to hope for from this point. It didn't matter. He didn't need hope. Hope is only for when you are completely clueless as to which way the wind is blowing. In the dark.

Because Anderson, as just so happened.

Anderson had the best seats in the house.

But he found himself neglecting his only advantage,

He just couldn't keep his eyes open...

Also…

_Also because I'm dying... _

And Anderson let loose another deep sigh. It conveyed just how world weary he'd become.

How world weary this damn war had made him.

...

_But… damn_

_What a view_

And then it was, that Anderson truly knew he wasn't dead.

A dead man doesn't hope, nor is he capable of harboring it.

He doesn't know anything-prefer anything, how can he?

A dead man has no preferences—he's dead!

And a dead man certainly does not "enjoy the view."

Even if this view could be appreciated, by anyone. The world... Earth...

Earth was burning. And he couldn't do anything. Anything to stop it from happening.

But a dead man wouldn't care—couldn't care. Anderson did far more than care, and briefly, hated the fact that was still alive all the more.

See? What a **_novel _**concept!

Anderson closed his eyes, so as to not have to witness the extinction of his species over the skies of the world that bore him. He wished he weren't here; that the shot The Illusive Man had fired from Shepard's own gun would have carried him to someplace where all he knew was not just there to be harvested. Where the world he served his life doing his duty to protect it was not burning. Delivered him from evil, even if that meant death. If only he were dead...

_As if they'd save the best seats in house for a corpse,_ he laughed softly to himself.

_I would have preferred a Matinée instead. On a Sunday, after Sunday service… And then ride out of London: Sunday-driving… no destination. Not arriving… anywhere, really. Or leaving, either, for that matter._

_On my way…_

_Back Home. I guess? _

_Oh and um... By the way, _

_where _exactly is_ Home again?_

Anderson laughed—this time, prepared for the penalty of his defiance towards his body as it…

…Tendered _its_ resignation, and therefore…

His too.

…

_Because I'm dying._

_Hah. I never went to church anyways. Hard to find them these days- ever since after '48… _

_Guess they packed up when we crossed the river Styx. Where's the boatman now? I'm pretty sure I've got enough on me to afford this one. After all, it's not a round trip. Pretty sure that's not even offered in the—_

The ground quaked, and Anderson was introduced to a pain that was unwarranted, or, at least to him it was. He didn't laugh this time, though he was getting around to it. It was all a dead man could do, though Anderson had to correct himself that he, in fact, was still not quite dead quite just yet.

_But this is how a dead man feels…_

_As I lay dying… _

Anderson smiled: another act of defiance. At least it didn't come with its batteries included this time. It didn't bring the pain.

And with that, it drained the pleasure of his defiance. The pain reminded him he was still alive.

And remembering he was still alive helped him forget the pain.

The pain of a man, as he lays there.

Dying.

A prisoner to a body that no longer responded to him: he could not move, or keep his eyes open, or even cry.

Hell, he was incapable of even being scared at this point.

Hell... Maybe he was too tired to be scared at this point?

Or maybe just too tired to care?

_Feels like it's been… years… Years… since I…_

The ground shook again. This time, more violently. Anderson felt his indifference towards a pain he had not invited. He hurt, but it brought him no comfort, though, I guess that would be considered normal… However, pain brought through his own defiance was justified through the autonomy of such insubordination. Of the act itself. Insubordination generally alludes to some sort of independence; it reflects on a certain degree of control one exhibits over himself and the functions he's capable of. Feeling capable of anything, even the autonomy to bring about one's own… discomfort? Even that was worth it.

It reminded him he was _alive_.

But the involuntary spasms of the earth… floor, ground—whatever—of the Citadel as it began to do… whatever it was supposed to do… (_Work, hopefully,_ thought Anderson)

No….

No.

The pain brought on by its occurrence did not remind Anderson he was alive.

It reminded him he was vulnerable. Like a baby, in its crib…

_As the rest of the house is burning down…_

So Anderson did something better than laugh. He did something better than trying out a sort of masochism to help him to forget or put off for now the waning of his own mortality.

Yes…

_As I lay dying…_

_In my time of…_

Yes. Anderson did something more… as to show the _true_ extent of his defiance.

It would serve as the final insult. An insult intended for _Death_, perhaps later to be fed liberally to his hounds. The ones he sets to those… as they lay dying. Laying, because they're dying. And dying as they lay. No burials. No wake. Just stillness.

And as Anderson lay dying, his defiance was made into a weapon in which, even in his present state, he could wield like a god damn _sword._

Yes. In his defiance, Anderson did the thing no man thinks he'll do. As he lays; dying…

Anderson began to sing.

"_In my time of dying,_

_Don't want no one to mourn…_

_All I want for you to do…"_

Anderson coughed, mid-sentence; and tried to cover his mouth with his hand…

He pulled his hand from his mouth, and from the corner of his eye, saw the same hand…

Covered in blood.

_His _blood.

Anderson coughed more violently, perhaps from his mind registering the significance of what that meant, that he's dying from more things, possibly, than he can even account for at this point. He was tired; sleep beckoned to him like an impatient mistress, but he had more pressing concerns, especially as, after the fit of coughing had finally ceased, and found soon that both of his ashy colored hands were coated in a viscous material that was obviously his blood, but also something more. Most likely, phlegm, but still, he couldn't help but feel that the blood on his hands were darker than they should be. Like they wouldn't wash out, even if he was privy to the means in which he could do such a thing… but he felt that, even if he could or even tried, it wouldn't wash out. Like Macbeth...

Anderson sighed, _More Shakespeare… Why did I have to grow up in London? _

_Shall I compare it to a summer's day_?

_Shall I compare this to a summer's day? Today?_

_Certainly not... all those lovely days are gone—damn you Shakespeare. _

_What would you write, if you were here with me?_

_We'd have the best seats in the house... but would leave with the heaviest hearts. Lead._

_Tell me Philosopher..._

_Is this the cause of Thunder?_

_The blood spilt on the ground, seeping through the soil; trying to escape the coming fire._

_And all the while, I sit here... still alive, for no reason other than I'm not dead yet. _

Anderson looked down to his hands. No, he was not dead. Not yet. But he knew the unavoidable outcome bound up in all of this. So, naturally, he did not provide any hope the opportunity this time around to encumber him with the illusion that this would conclude in any other way besides the way he expected, which was with eventual death. He wouldn't even allow himself to hope that said death will merciful, painless, or even quick. As preferable as quick, painless death appealed to Anderson, he himself couldn't say, as much as he wanted it, that such was his preference. Because whatever fate he was moving towards, it would be whatever fate had in store for him. And looking at his hands again... Fate seemed to be a cruel, uncaring sovereign to swear fealty to.

So, Anderson decided to take his mind off his hands, and continued singing, albeit, in a raspy, dry voice. He didn't get far before provoking another bout of coughing. Which meant more blood on his hands.

_Because I'm dying…_

_And, because I'm going to die here. _

_And I must accept that..._

_Because I'm dying. _

_I'm _**_dying_**_, God damn it..._

More determined than ever, he sang. _Boldly._

"_Well, well, well…_

…_so I can die easy"_

"_Well, well, well…_

…_so I can die easy."_

The ground shakes again. The whole Citadel is reverberating with something very much like a hum now. An audible hum: similar to the one made by the Normandy's eezo drive core, but much louder, and literally moved the entire Citadel in concert around Anderson as the closed space station rearranged itself, groaning and moaning in the process like an old mutt left out in the sun for too long. Or like chassis of a mech, rusted from rain but made to run around. Do somersaults.

Made to run the whole nine yards, and then some.

_Like me, huh? Will I be running the whole nine yards too? Why do I feel as if…_

Anderson continued to sing, temporarily putting that train of thought on hold, if only for a moment…

"_Jesus is gonna make up…_

The Citadel continued to groan, and the hum became slightly less audible, the vibrations, slightly less noticeable.

_Jesus is gonna make up…_

A metallic clicking sound was heard, like as if the point of something came to rest on another part of the Citadel, followed by the return of the hum, but not the vibrations with it. The clicking sound continued, as if it was swaying just ever so slightly to keep prodding whatever it was making contact with, like a pendulum, but with less momentum.

It was almost as if it was trying to remind someone of something… Whoever and whatever that was. It didn't concern Anderson. Anderson had done his part. All he had to do now was wait. Wait for the end to come, in the thick of his time of dying...

_His _time.

"_Jesus gonna make up me dying in bed…"_

Anderson almost laughed again at the irony of his choice of songs to sing as he waited for this all just to be over. It was almost unfair in a way that he could not have just simply died already. He deserved that much. After staying on Earth, surviving the Reapers… and then…

Anderson shuddered. He tried his best not to think about it: the _truth_. The ugly, disgusting, embarrassing, shameful truth. He had not been strong enough. His mind was a resource that had been made available given the circumstances. Given his decision to stay. It was fine in Vancouver, or, at least, nowhere near as bad as what he came to see and experience firsthand.

Anderson took the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and rubbed away at his rose-tinted vision where everything seemed to now lack substance and depth. Like as if everything were two dimensional primarily, but sticking up way to close at you. Like it was being put right up in your face for your convenience. Obviously, this was not the case.

Anderson, for once, now finally gave his surroundings a cursory look-over.

_Where's Shepard? _He wondered.

_He was right next to me the last I saw, before I blacked out for a while… or however long I was out. It couldn't have been that long._

_Could it?_

Anderson looked up towards the podium that he been "using" when Shepard was first arriving. When Shepard…

_Fell for the bait. God, forgive me… _

Was he dead? Unlikely. He looked at where he last saw Shepard, there were no signs of a scuffle, or that Shepard had been injured any more than what he arrived with, which is hard to say exactly to what extent he was injured. Anderson's memory was a haze of details, like a dream that he felt completely versed in when he was living it, but now that he's woken up, it will hang off the edge of his tongue for days, teasing his memory but never yielding anything more than simply more time wasted spent trying to remember. But God, he felt as if he should know what was _going on!_

And then it happened. A light shone down from the concave ceiling of wherever they were in the Citadel— at first, it was almost blinding. And then, it was. Almost directly after this light source's debut, the entire room was flooded with light. Thick, impenetrable, impermeable light: like the sun had literally been thrown down at you, if not only to distract you, because such things w at their—the enemy's- disposal. It was like being in a room where a woman was walking out from a shower, and she makes you turn around or leave the room altogether so as to give her privacy. That's what Anderson was reminded of here.

That's what he was reminded of… until the light gave way to the secret it had tried to initially keep hidden. To its… cargo.

Commander Shepard. It was Commander Shepard. And that was when Anderson was reminded of something he both thought he would never forget, but could ultimately at this point not have to worry about.

_Because I'm dying…_

And he remembered.

He remembered his _duty._

Anderson stood up. It was awkward, and definitely painful process on his end, but there was a palpable… element—or even like a spirit or ghost of some sort that clearly possessed him. It wasn't something supernatural or paranormal. It was something innate and buried so deep inside Anderson that it becomes obvious it's something he's carried with him for a while.

It's no spirit, or Reaper indoctrinating him… No. The prior doesn't exist in any reality he's familiar with… and the latter…

The latter he could tell from experience, in spite of how contemptuous that made him feel… about…

About himself.

The entire Citadel shook—this time in markedly different manner from any other time before, and the hum returned as well. This time, it was definitely louder.

_Much_ louder.

Admiral Hackett's voice buzzed through the podium

"Shepard! Commander, do you read? The Catalyst is doing something; the Citadel seems to be priming for… something. It's opened its arms— I believe it's priming to fire, Commander, but we have no way to be sure.

If you read me, you need to evacuate the Citadel immediately. I repeat: evacuate the Citadel **immediately. **The Citadel looks like it's-"

Anderson leaned over the console and responded. Hackett's expression immediately hardened upon seeing Anderson. Anderson wasn't sure how much Hackett could see of him from his perspective, but by the looks in his eyes, Anderson could tell he made the connection almost instantaneously.

Anderson was dying.

"I read you Admiral… Steven," Anderson replied, "I have the Commander; he's with me—safe for now."

"David, neither of you will be if you don't get out of there, **_now!_** The Citadel is priming to fire. I can't say what will happen after it fires, whether the Citadel will make it or no—"

"I'm on it Admiral," Anderson cut him off. His voice was devoid of any sort of encumbrances, and driven by his implacable sense of duty and responsibility- and David was responsible. He knew that, even if Hackett and Shepard will never know. Hopefully, they'll never know.

_Dead men tell no tales… No lingering sentiments; residual as the worst kind always are…_

_Just silence. And stillness: an all-encompassing… abyss, and in the stillness:_

_Deliverance._

_Deliverance from evil, and danger: yes. But more importantly… from a debt I can never repay. _

_I'm so sorry John. I hope you never have to learn the truth… And if you do…_

"Forgive me, Steven… Admiral," Anderson took his hand off his chest where he'd been hiding the gunshot wound where The Illusive Man had shot him in what seems like an entire lifetime ago. He wasn't only hiding the wound, but keeping pressure to staunch the flow of blood, which there was a lot of.

"But we both know only one person will be waiting down there to see you when this is over. It won't be me. It was never meant to be… _I _was never meant to…"

Hackett said nothing.

"Good bye, Steven. It's time I passed the torch. To the next generation… We're getting old, you know that?"

"Yeah."

"We did good. _No…_ **_you _**did good. Damn good. You, and the boy."

"He's not a boy anymore,David. None of us are. Not after this."

"Maybe. But's he more of a man than I could claim to be… or... could claim to have been."

Anderson paused only a second before looking Admiral Steven Hackett dead in the eyes with all the intensity a dying man could muster when he's dying on his feet. With his boots on.

"Tell him I'm sorry. For everything."

There was no clear indication as to whether Admiral Hackett understood what Anderson wanted Hackett to tell Shepard he was sorry for, but the silence spoke volumes.

"Yes, David. I will"

_Maybe next time I can die in bed, with bare feet wrestling gingerly with smooth, white silk sheets. Like falling asleep. _

_Or just like falling… Oh Kahlee… If only things could have been different._

_Than maybe I might have been stronger... when it counted most._

Anderson carried Shepard as fast as he could to the conduit that he first arrived here by. It was only a short distance—make a couple of odd hundred feet. A stroll in the park for some, but for a man who's supposed to be dying, and for a man who's probably somewhere in-between, or the very least, just unconscious, Anderson had his work cut out for him. Shepard was a lot of dead weight to carry for a man who'd only just recently been shot. But Anderson did not struggle, or at least did not show it. Instead, he sang. Singing, as he "marched," like the soldiers used to back in London. Singing as they marched along, snare drums marking their pace as they passed on by. Anderson loved seeing that as a boy, and wanted to die similarly as a man. Singing as he marched along to the end of long, drawn-out tale that was his life. He wanted to die with a tune locked in his throat, like a bird in some gilded cage. He wanted to die with it filling his voice with warmth that extended far beyond what a dead man should feel—or a dying one should. Anderson was not dead. Not yet.

"_Well meet me Jesus, meet me…_

_Meet me in the air"_

Anderson was so close now; he could see the conduit, but the Citadel felt like it was shaking itself apart, trying to, like Anderson, to just be done with it all at this point. Anderson smiled humorously when he realized that his tomb would also become analogous to himself now as well. Anderson and the Citadel were relics of another time, collecting dust at the top of the shelf, getting older, and with age, more outdated.

But this was something only he could do. And by god! God dammit, he was so damn close!

"_If these wings should fail me,_

"_Lord, won't you meet me with another pair!..."_

Even closer.

"_Well, well, well…"_

A few more steps…

"_So I can die easy…"_

Now kneel down… and lower him. _Gently._

"_Well, well, well…"_

_"So I can die easy…"_

Hurry. The whole thing's gonna come undone. Need to… just…

"_Jesus is gonna make up,"_

Need to just…

"_Jesus is gonna make up,"_

And finally, just need to...

"_Jesus is gonna make up…"_

And… there!

_"Jesus is gonna make up me dying in bed."_

"Good. He's gone. Safe. It's over. It's finally…"

And then, Anderson's world exploded into the most beautiful colors and lights that he'd never seen before, or anything like them! And, before it consumed him, he wept at the sight of something so beautiful as it wrapped his entire body in a strange, warmth—like a bed made of lights and colors that he could die in. Where he could die easy.

And for a moment, he could feel his spirit; glowing.

His spirit was on fire, with a hunger that was even greater than any Reaper. All their capitol ships were cast into the shadow of his now indomitable spirit, as it went super nova inside his very body, transcending flesh, bone, and marrow which once could confine it, before it simply consumed these trappings in its journey to rejoin the collective energy of the universe, maybe one day to be put to use again. But, for now at least, it was the energy of the universe, and even before it becomes lost in the vastness of space and tangled up in the different folds in the fabric of time, it was damned _palpable; _it could _burn_ you, and the flames danced with the luster of a thousand souls, taking in another kinsmen, and adding to a universal potential. Pure energy, carried on cosmic winds...

Anderson became something greater than our ability to comprehend or understand, in ways that would only belittle our understanding of how this Universe can truly be interpreted. But Anderson, in this one moment, was not something we could interpret, or could be made subject to our interpretation, because the moment his spirit became tangible, it outshone a million eyes like a million suns, seeing a million futures, with a hundred billion different possibilites that would realize themselves in a hundred million ways, and he touched all of the space both there and between, and in doing so, shared the sorrows, joys, fears, anxieties hopes, dreams and ideals of an otherwise disconnected universe, and shared in all of their burdens in a single glorious moment of transcendence that ushered in a sort of cosmic synergy. In this moment, Anderson was like a God: Omnipotence in tangible form, and projected across the countless sea of stars, on which it thus began its maiden voyage into the great unknown, riding on the crest of something that would carry him off to a place where the living cannot follow... as we watch, marring this passage with indifference, as we are wont to. Mired in this indifference, we inhibit ourselves, secular as we are, and cannot see the bigger picture being painted right before our very eyes on the canvas of the night sky. Anderson escaped these inhibitions, like a phoenix rising from gold, and not ashes, and blazing a trail across the skies of Earth, and all of her colonies, just like a comet, but harnessed by this new energy just released into the universe. And only when it becomes so pellucid and so palpable that you fear you might drown... does it leave you, but singes the soul: brands it- simply for bearing witness to the unbridled beauty of an unforgiving cosmos, as cruel as she is beautiful, and tonight, her agent Anderson. Anderson, a man... or a god? No. Definitely a man, but definitely something else. Maybe an instrument of some higher power, or maybe something beyond imagining. Something amazing, and if not, then simply and reminder to us this universe itself is amazing, and capable of anything.

It was something wonderful. And Anderson touched every part of the Universe in this way, and everything that existed was brought together, for a single glorious moment.

And then he was gone,

And the galaxy was set on fire,

And everything changed. _Forever._


	2. Chapter 2

_**THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS**_

**CHAPTER 2:**

_**THE BROKEN PROMONTORY**_

**Samuel Mansfield**

**-ROUGHLY 6 MONTHS LATER-**

As per his routine, Commander Shepard walked the streets of Vancouver, making his way towards English Bay while heading west, coming from what was Downtown Vancouver, before Vancouver had adopted the new "post-apocalyptic" look that really caught on after the Reaper invasion. Indeed, from the harbor north of Downtown, and then south to Downtown itself, going west into West End, along English Bay and even extending out past the downtown peninsula, but particularly condensed the closer you are to the old Burrard Street Bridge, and even more so slightly further north from that—everywhere, Vancouver had fallen into a uniform rubble look, where Vancouver only varied by simply how much rubble there still was since the invasion, and occupation of the city in any given place. This made traffic quite bad in the city, as there were only a handful of roads left that are safe for driving, and the ones that could support the traffic in and out of the city were almost always bumper-to-bumper, and at rush hour, you might as well get up and walk to where ever you're going. One of the few still working bridges that even leads out of the downtown peninsula was the old Granville Bridge, which wasn't left untouched obviously while the Reapers occupied Vancouver, but was still in a condition where the city could pay to at least get it back in working order. Hell, fixing the Granville Bridge was one of the first things they had done after they took back control of the city.

Sadly, however, it was one of the few things that they had done since reconstruction was slow. It was slow everywhere—far worse in some places than others. Places like Houston, for example, were an example of some cities where evacuees did not return after they moved out to evacuate in the first place. City's like Houston had it rougher than cities like Vancouver long before the Reapers; the city of Houston had indeed fell into decline during the beginning of the 22nd century, and by 48', everyone's attention had already turned to the stars, what with the discovery of the Prothean bunker discovered on Mars, and all the data that was found in it over the years—like the Crucible, for example.

However, for cities like Houston, the race for the stars that began half way into the 22nd century had left such places like Houston to their own devices. Houston is obviously not the only place to suffer these conditions. In fact, some cities across the globe have still not made contact with any other major population centers—near, far, or anywhere for that matter. Many cities in Central Asia have gone completely gone dark, with no one hearing anything from them since after the initial invasion, or during the Reaper occupation, as well as after the Retaking of Earth. Then the Crucible was fired, which at least destroyed the Charon Relay, although its design leaned on it use of the mass relays as a medium— as the means to distribute its intergalactic payload, as Liara had put it originally, which possessed, "...unquantifiable levels of destruction." That being said, Shepard didn't need to have Liara around to tell him what he could probably already guess: that Charon wasn't the only relay that was lost. Shepard felt as if this "unquanitfiable level" could be quantified- assuming you're not adding the Reapers to the numerical baggage- as a quantity simply made up by how many relays there were- opened beforehand by the species of the galaxy or not- that Shepard felt had all been destroyed in the wake of the Crucible's unbiased, and unimaginable scope.

No, he didn't need Liara around to tell him that.

_But still..._

Shepard frowned. He missed Liara. He missed all of his crew. He missed the Normandy.

And he hated not knowing where any of them were.

_Losing them, and not knowing what happened, or where they went, or why, or where they are now... Joker, Chakwas, Javik and Kaiden... All the crew too: Engineer Adams, Gabby, Ken, and Traynor... Even Steve and James._

All of them were his crew, no matter how long they had served on the Normandy. They didn't have to have been around for say, as long as Garrus and Tali had...

...

Shepard's face grew more tense, and even darkened with a sort of grim seriousness.

_Garrus... and Tali..._

The serious look on Shepard's face softened from the thought of her—from thinking of her, and calling her name to mind. He missed her- arguably more than the others- but he would never say that to them. Assuming he'd ever even get the chance to tell them anything. He sighed. His mind returning to Tali, and then eventually all of his crew, and then eventually back to Tali. Thinking about them might have dropped the stony expression on his face, but thinking about _her _is what caused him to frown, and this grimace was copupled with a 100 yard stare that pierced wherever it was that Shepard was looking off to- to the north. He could see, even from here as he looked down the English Bay- or up, depending on your perspective- the somewhat unremarkable peak of Grouse Mountain. He imagined some tourist on vacation looking down at him from the summit, but later laughed at the notion and the absurdity that had come to mind instead, because he knew they were words that didn't really mean the same thing anymore, or anything at all in a post-war world. They were like things we have words for, but not because they actually exist in reality: like a Faery in Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream. _

Words like these- like "tourist," and "tourism," or even "vacation," just don't really hold any place or relevance in a post-Reaper-occupied Earth. Finding someone on vacation these days would be very much like running into a Faery from Shakespeare- or even Big Foot. No one went on vacation anymore- where would they even go?

They evacuated. What with law enforcement tied up with the reconstruction and restoration of all the major populations centers that the Reapers had originally targeted from the get-go, other cities who did not suffer the same amount of physical damage, had far more crime on to contend with, and no means to stop it.

And even crime had been forced to evolve. Long gone were the days of say, robbing a bank, or something to that effect, and the simple thugs of yester-year. Yet near the end of 2186, that seemed to lack scope to today's contemporaries. To the criminal of the near 23rd century, living on Earth, crime had changed as much as Earth had itself- if not more, and in all the ways that weren't good, unless you belonged to the "industry."

And this applied to everyone: be that one of the natives, or someone just stuck here since Charon was utterly destroyed, like a Batarian, Krogan, Vorcha: all former Blood Pack- still Blood Pack, but stronger. Far stronger.

The Blood Pack had grown in size and strength and influence over the past half a year, and had almost a global presence already established that was stronger in some places but weaker in others, but still almost everywhere. They operated mainly in Central Asia at first- which was more than likely why they the rest of the world had still not heard from the region- and used guerilla tactics to ambush people trying to cross the border from China into present day Mongolia, but established a hold in parts of the Middle East, which they won from the Blue Suns, who were merely just a band of thieves here on their native planet without the other species that had made up their ranks to assist them, as they had bugged out to hit the Charon relay before the Galaxy had been put to the torch. It seemed that almost everyone got the memo, and the ones who didn't were left to collectively marr the passage of their kinsmen. But the Blood Pack had stayed almost in full force, and eventually, started recruiting. They started first in Central Asia: in the Gobi Desert.

But they had come a _long_ way from the Gobi.

They were redefining organized crime. It was a criminal _renaissance,_ where any small-time crime lord could buy into the illusion that it was benefitting him. And maybe it was, as crime was certaintly changing in many dynamic ways- coming now in all shapes and sizes. But the small-time crime lord was fooling himself if he thought any of this actually gave him a degree of control over the industry, because the industry belonged to Blood Pack: they'd built themselves a monopoly.

And business was good. They had everyone under their collective thumb, for they sold the means in which the game could be played, and no one could play the game without coming to them first. If all roads lead to Rome, then the Blood Pack had become the Rome of modernized crime- and in less than six months, too.

Now crime was a real business that supported an actual economy, becoming far more dynamic, as the industry catered to the needs and fears of an entire planet, while still keeping the Blood Pack's interests paramount. Anyone who wanted in on the industry, would then have to be just as dynamic to meet this demand. They had more to gain, obviously, as the the Blood Pack maintained the prices of their "service fees" that their clients would have to conform to if they wanted to do business, meaning the Blood Pack's operatives would be better equipped, as well as better trained, and better funded, with safety now becoming, ironically, a major concern, so as to protect their investments. Typically when in groups or teams, these squads would tend to take the safe, if not somewhat unoriginal, approach of attacking the population centers where, due to construction, and even inter-city migration- a more common occurance than one would think in places like New York or Los Angeles- made the "law" a very subjective concept, and law enforcement, seemingly as tangable as the law itself. Most law enforcement tried rather to negotiate instead, taking a "realistic" approach, as they saw it. Which is to say, to turn their attention from one place that the Blood Pack had decided was within their "interests," if they would merely leave another part of the city alone- you know: so that they could finish reconstructing say, the Statue of Liberty, or the Washington Monument, or Carnagie Hall. Shepard couldn't help himself from laughing, despite that it really _wasn't_ funny:

T_he bare necessities._

And it was _far _worse in the other cities, which had been deemed by the powers that be as less of a priority. So, instead of Houston again, as no refugees had deemed it worth returning to, and was essentially a ghost town- or a scrap yard for squatters to pick away at until the Blood Pack cleared them off- going further west from Houston, into the once beautiful hill-country near Austin, and you would find that the Blood Pack _had _become the Law. Dallas was also the case, though no one had any use for San Antonio, because it simply wasn't there anymore. The Reapers had made sure of that. And if you went south into Mexico, well...

Well, that had become a very dark place. Shepard didn't want to think of the atrocities that went on south of the border, with the Blood Pack having seized upon what once was the Mexican Drug Cartel, which during its own time was thought as incapable of getting any worse. Too bad no one expected a Reaper invasion, or occupation. And now that it was over, many found themselves looking for ways to escape the reality that it wasn't over for _them_. The wanted to forget the war, and drugs were their way out. Humanitarians were quite obviously in short supply, but crime had become a very lucrative profession, and so the Blood Pack catered to this demand, and found themselves virtually unopposed in Mexico and South America.

And all of that made Earth _very_ profitable for the Blood Pack. They were doing better here than they had in the Terminus systems- a hundredfold.

Though that might be a modest estimate. What the Blood Pack had on Earth was an _empire. _Shepard could have never forseen this happening when Aria had given him these resources, that had splintered off, as the Crucible had this little corner of the universe, and in their newfound isolation, is what allowed the Blood Pack to make Earth _their_ resource_. _For what the Blood Pack had built on this charred rock- albeit a _profitable_ rock- They had built their... "_church_." And all paid tribute to the Blood Pack, much like the Church of old.

It seemed almost as if history had repeated itself, in a very vulgar and twisted way.

Shepard wondered if he had enabled this occurance, but in truth, he _knew_ he had. And he would one day make up for his lack of foresight- that he didn't see something like this being possibly capable of happening, and because of his inability to see the full end of the spectrum that he himself had set in place, he would have to fight what felt like the whole world itself...

For the world itself. He'd have to one day take it back. Again.

And he had no illusions that it would be easy. It would be him against the world. Which was, for all intents and purposes, the Blood Pack.

But their relationship was almost symbiotic at this point, even as much as Shepard didn't like to admit it. The world was rebuilding itself, or trying to. The Blood Pack was rebuilding itself, but prospering more than any culture had in human history in such a short time. And they were leading the way.

For better or worse.

Whether they knew it or not.

Which they most certainly did, which would only make it worse.

Far worse.

For the different countries and cultures and ethnicities that all came together to conquer the stars in a single, unified Earth government, were now effictively city states that were gunning for power in what was thought to be a free fire zone. But none of it was free- and the Blood Pack paid well to maintain this illusion. And these aliens were doing a damned _good_ job at it, if you could measure their success with the same adjective as one would the quality of their day. But it had been a good day- a good six month long day for the Blood Pack.

And a long, long night for everyone caught in the crossfire.

And _then _there were the Vorcha.

Yes, they were their own problem altogether. Old Hunter Gavorn back on Omega-who was hopefully, Shepard thought, still alive- wasn't pulling any punches with his claim about how prolific the Vorcha could be.

They breed faster than mosquitoes do in stagnant water.

In a rainforest.

They were getting out control. Fast.

It was even becoming a problem for the Blood Pack; probably the only thing that even they might not be able to control. It would be funny to see them come around and sterilize them alltogether, as the head honchos of the Blood Pack were largly Krogan, though Shepard was sure some of the natives had gotten in on the industry too. It was all very _hands __on_.

And then there were the others. The species who haven't been seen since the Crucible was brought into the Sol System, and were presumably back on their respective homeworlds, drinking champagne and cavier, or whatever the equivalent for that would be for those of dextro-chirality.

They were the ones not taking part in this cluster fuck. The ones who got out-system while we stuck around for a large order of _Charlie Foxtrott._

They were the ones who got away- whatever that means. Shepard didn't want to think about that, because "they" included the Normandy, and Shepard's crew.

They were the Asari, the Turians, Salarians, and Quarians. They're out. Gone. Hopefully, they'll send us a post card, or a care package for those of theirs' that are still here in this shit hole. Yeah, you might find a turian or two—maybe an Asari if you're lucky—a few dozen from both species seemingly were left behind when the Crucible fired, probably because they were fighting on the ground at the time, while their kinsmen were hitting the Charon relay as fast as they could, trying to get away from the gun, seemingly pointed at the head of the universe.

Did they get away? Where did they run to? And why can't any of the Salarians or the Quarians be accounted for amongst the stragglers left here? There's not one to be found on Earth; not one! Even the Turians who got stranded here, who are basically living on borrowed time, if they're still even alive at all. Or haven't offed themselves rather than face an inevitable fate, more implaccable in a sense than the Reapers. Shepard had seen one early on, but it was pretty clear his fate had been decided by the circumstances. The Turians couldn't stay here. Earth would be a bigger threat for them than the Reapers.

It's not like it's a secret or anything, Earth simply cannot support them. Those that are stuck here—unless they have a surplus of amino-dextro based food- and a lot of it—they will all die, very soon. It was inevitable; a truth no one could skirt around.

_On another species' home planet, waiting to die, basically. I could only imagine how well that'd sit with a Turian stuck here. Could imagine how well that'd sit with Garrus if he were stuck here._

_He'd be trying to swim to Palaven at this point. Too bad Turians don't make for good swimmers._

_Good thing I'd be along with him, because I'd be swimming along too, as much as I hate swimming._

_But I can do one hell of breast-stroke. All that space in the galaxy would be like Sunday-driving, where I'd hate every light year along the way, but not as much as I hate staying here._

_So it would hurt so_ **good.**

Shepard laughed as he finally turned right, and began to walk north, slightly north-west- or north-north-west, more likely- up along the Broken Promontory; walking up-hill, and then back down to a leveled path fenced in to his left along the bay by countless, broken fragments of assorted buildings that no one could probably distinguish anymore. Shepard could only hear the sounds of horns blaring at each other, stuck in traffic as they were trying to get out from West End going south, south-west; away from the downtown peninsula, sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic up on the Granville Bridge. Most of them probably miss their hover cars right about now. And speaking of which...

Shepard noticed a hover car streaking through the air, alone in the sea of blue where the sky was pretty much made into his playground that he'd occasionally have to share with a flock of birds, which there were also less of after the war. Shepard was sure many people besides him were also looking up, cursing the lucky bastard, wishing they could wrench him down to Earth so could have hit turn sitting in the traffic up there on the Granville bridge, and see that the definition of "entropy," which his chemistry teacher had taught him in high school, didn't have shit on the chaos and the crimes against humanity that take place on the Granville Bridge every day. Truly, if you come out there with only a slightly unbearable migrane, you're one of the luckier ones.

Shepard sighed, using his thumb and forefinger to pull on the skin on the bridge of his nose. A gesture of annoyance; of frustration.

Thank God he was walking the other way, towards the good ol' broken Burrard Street Bridge, which no one's used since even before the invasion. Shepard wasn't sure himself _when_ it actually had been used. It felt ancient: like the bones of the earth itself.

It had been made this way- broken- long enough ago, so that only urban legends provide any insight as to its origins (if you call that 'insight'), and are, consequently, the only things kids believe these days regarding the history of the Burrard. Some say there was an earth-quake. Some say somebody had it destroyed intentionally with, say, a bomb, or something of that nature. Shepard had even heard one kid tell his friends that it broke from sheer force when some Cassonava had the world's greatest sex on the craggy asphalt of the bridge in the middle of rush hour. Shepard had personally liked that one. He let the kid have his day- that day, anyways.

All that was left to show for its history was the bit of the Burrard that still existed; pointing west into the bay, and sticking out from the downtown peninsula. Like a giant, rusted finger, slightly gnarled and boney… but pointing at something. Something off in the west.

And then, there was everything in-between. The Broken Promontory.

The Broken Promontory was exactly what its name entailed, if only that it doesn't specify in the name exactly what about the Promontory was "broken." You'll rememeber the assorted mash of buildings on the way described on Shepard's walk, ever since he turned north and started walking along the bay? Well, this is where that trend would become more leveled, but slightly adjacent from the original debris that had been along the left of the main road leading skirting around West End. This was the same thing, but more tame, and dumped out uncermoniously on the beach.

Upon seeing it your first time, especially if you never saw all—or any—of English Bay before the invasion, than you can understand exactly why it's called what it is. The Broken Promontory.

The Broken Promontory is literally… a beach, or was a beach, until the debris from the buildings that once stood north of here had been dumped onto. There is no sand to build sand castles with, so to speak. Well, there is, but it's _under_ the Promontory, and some of it might have been super-heated to glass during the Vancouver-Occupation. It's not a safe place to bring your kids. In fact, it's quite perilous. Shepard imagined it had claimed the lives of more than one foolhardy youth, trying to impress his friends. Or a girl, more than likely.

As still per Shepard's routine, Shepard was always wont to get as close to the water as he could, jumping about the pieces of rubble that were originally _something, _or several somethings, but now something entirely different as it had been from the moment it whoever had dropped it here on the bay. The Reapers, most likely.

Shepard figured he'd prefer the Promontory over the original beech any day. Again: Shepard hated swimming, and was glad he rarely had to. He also hated the beech. Shepard was a spacer kid; he went from ship to ship to ship—wherever his family was needed. But that doesn't mean he ignorant of such…_Terrestrial _pursuits. But he had too many memories of the taste of salt water and sunburns- even if he could count them all on one hand.

He smiled to himself, placing himself carefully on the closest piece of debris that could still support his weight. There, he would watch pieces of glass—English Bay was filled with it since the Occupation— and get lost in the foam made from detergent run-off, as he waited for the sun to set so he could get his stargazing in tonight. Those damn doctors stopped him yesterday; the bastards had locked the windows! But today, Shepard didn't even try something so elaborate as sneaking out a window. He just went through the front door. No one stopped him. Aside from his own personal doctors, the others steered clear from him. The things he shouted in his sleep, in his dreams... He'd been told it would be harrowing for even the most accomplished vet- and veterens of the war against the Reapers were only as "accomplished" as they were post-traumatically distressed.

It had been so long since he had slept well. At least since...

Truth be told, Shepard hadn't had a good sleep since… Shepard blushed, realizing that he hadn't had even a decent sleep since it was last shared with…

Shepard sighed again, looking up to see the birth of a beautiful night sky. He tried to single out the stars individually, but the noise from the south was distracting. Truly, if the Reapers true vocation was to combat entropy, they should have just gone ahead and destroyed that damned bridge, and all the people on it. They must have done something to earn their place up in the inner-most circle of hell: probably divided by zero. Shepard imagined that entropy held second priority to the Reapers. and if he hadn't destroyed him, the would turn that bridge into the next Sodom and Gammorah.

He was frustrated, but couldn't help from his original endeavor, as Shepard's sense of humor couldn't expell the woman he'd come to love from controlling his thoughts at this point.

_Tali… Where and the hell are you? How am I supposed to possibly find you? _

Shepard began to point to random stars,

"_Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Moe…?" _

In spite of this "joke," this would be the last, and there was no humor in Shepard's voice. He was _frustrated_: to be stuck here, on the singed, charred planet that was going to shit in more ways than just one. Quite simply: the people here generally suck—the people from here. They lived their lives up until this point having never met any other species, holing themselves up here so they _wouldn't_ have to, and now what? Now they take it out on the rest of us, while aliens are taking it out on _everyone._

Bastards; and he'd dealt with for six months now. _Six._

And it didn't look like they would change- or at least not any time soon.

And nothing had really told him otherwise yet. Nothing had given him hope of finding a way.

Six months without hearing from his crew... He wondered if they were all dead, and if they were, whether their passing had been granted mercifully: either by circumstances or whoever it was who chose to wield the broken sword- fate. Yet he found he didn't want to think about either outcome... However...

If a broken sword— if mercy had nothing to do with any of this, than neither did circumstance, or even reasoning.

Because there was no reason that they _couldn't_ have survived.

God damn it, if he could believe he'd still be here for another six months, than he could believe his own far-fetched hope. Fuck that:- he _would_ believe!

They could be alive!

But Shepard knew if they were…

It was only from dumb luck.

But that was as good enough of a reason as no reason at all, which gave him a reason to care. To care about getting out of here, and getting to them. To the Normandy.

And if it was dumb luck that saved his crew,

Then it was dumb luck that would get him there- that would get them _back._

And Shepard wondered if they were looking up, thinking the same thing.


	3. Chapter 3

_**THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS**_

_**By Sam Mansfield**_

_**CHAPTER 3: **_

_**THE BROKEN SWORD.**_

As it turned out, the Normandy crew had already figured out for themselves a while ago how "dumb luck" figured into how any of them managed to survive. _For_ nearly six months, the crew had the opportunity to both collectively, as well as individually figure that out for themselves. That being said, it didn't take even more than a few weeks for the crew to realize that they really _didn't_ want to talk about it: not to each other, not to anyone, really. And while the fact of the matter is that, yes—ultimately, the crew was still alive, as well as all the civilians and surviving members of team Hammer, who they'd picked up shortly after-

Shortly after _it_ happened. After... well,

...

After Command Shepard... _died_.

And while the fact of the matter is that, yes- ultimately _everyone _on the ship had made it out alive- no one could appreciate it.

Some even resented it entirely: that very same "dumb luck" that should have just left well alone,

Because some did not feel very _lucky_ to be alive- for Fate to have wielded the Broken Sword-

Which She had broken in her lust for _him_. For Shepard.

_The one who got away._

_The one who escaped Fate._

The Crucible had been her calling card, but only the Commander had be meant to place the call: a twisted fate.

Because Fate itself is twisted. And she found no shame in seizing upon the moment of oppertunity...

When Shepard came knocking on her door.

John Allen Shepard; born in Space. Shaped by fire on Akuze, where Shepard watched had watched his entire platoon die before his eyes. Fate had seized upon that oppertunity as well, for Fate had coveted John since Fate had brought him into the world- into the universe- and she longed for the day that he would be hers, but ultimately found that day needed a sort of... expedition. Fate was an impatient mistress; she wouldn't wait for John forever.

But ultimately had all the time in the universe.

So she sent another of her agents: the Collector ship- Fate's left hand, which would be given the ring forged from John's yoke, as John was bound to Fate in death; married in-orbit, over the skies of Archeron, where Shepard's body streaked fire across the frozen sky of the world named after the river whose straits his soul narrowed in death. Fate had won that day.

And then two years, it was as if Fate had contended with her own Orpheus- who had stolen her prize from her in death- but worst of all, had been named after that which guarded that which was supposed to keep Shepard in her realm- dead; or so she thought. And it was Cerberus that stole Shepard from her.

But it was all for not, it naught: for it seemed clear to all that Shepard had been living on merely borrowed time.

Or so they thought.

But in their minds, everyone had still lost something. The civilians could appreciate the crew had risked their lives to save them, but had couldn't appreciate that they would, in exchange for their lives, never see Earth again.

And then there were those that survived from Team Hammer, who had could share in the crew's loss, but mourned their own as well, but especially the loss of Admiral Anderson, who presumably was lost with Shepard when they charged the Conduit at the end of No-Man's-Land.

But the crew had lost their leader- their Commanding Officer,

Their _friend- _and for some: more than that...

Their _lover._

Poor Tali; she hardly ever left the Captain's Cabin these days...

EDI, however, had been in high spirits, as she apparently claimed to be onto something, working day and night in the war room trying to repair the ship's quantum entaglement-based communication system, and see if it could be used to hail Alliance Command- or as Jeff was always keen to remind her, "_If_ there still was an Alliance Command _left _for them to hail."

It seemed hopeless, and everyone else had thought so too. Most of the people stuck here had all given into the idea that they probably weren't going to get back home any time soon- or at all. Her initiative helped to placate their fears early on, but now, it was just adding salt into the wounds. Six months had gone on by- _six- _And they were still in the exact same damn place: where they had originally crash landed. Most of the actual crew still slept inside the Normandy, as its basic electrical functions were still working- even after six months- but the quantum entangler was far from applying to that category.

Truth be told, the only thing that would get it running again would be for them to fix the Tantalus Drive Core- and that would require a lot of eezo, which they obviously didn't have here on this backwater planet.

Flight Lieutenant Jeff "Joker" Moreau sighed, rubbing the skin near his eyes first with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and kept them there as if he looked like here were pinching the bridge of his nose. These were some of the Commander's old mannerisms. Jeff never truly realized how much his old C.O. must have rubbed off on him over the three plus years that he flew him about the galaxy. Looking back now, the Milky Way reminded Jeff of some crazy spinning top—or a stage in which Jeff had danced the night away— or even a dream Jeff had been living for some 3 odd years at this point, and the memory of which made all the more poignant—potent—by the fact that within these six months, they had done _nothing._ Jeff wasn't a man who minded being idle, but coming from a man with Vrolik's Syndrome, what "idle" was to him was a _little _different to what it was obviously to the others—both the actual crew, and all the civvies.

Jeff obviously wasn't about to go climbing any trees any time soon, though these days, he seemed to be the only who wasn't- except EDI, who couldn't stray too far from the Normandy, what with the crash having damaged the Normandy's ability to emitt the frequency which allowed her to control her physical avatar, and now could only reach her from no more than a couple of hundred yards, which wasn't much of a problem, as she almost never left the Normandy anyways. But for everyone else, maintaining a constant surplus of food and on-hand resources was always an imperative amongst the survivors. The only food that the Normandy had been stocked up on before being marooned here, on what the civilians now all refer to as "Planet Normandy," were foods of an amino-dextro based chirality; mainly Turian nutrient pastes, as well as some non-essentials (although essential for the moral, most would claim,) such as alcohol. As one could probably guess—and as it just so happens, as one actually _did_ guess (a civvie, of all people,)—the Normandy bar had been almost completely stocked with different assortments of alcoholic beverages and fine spirits, including nearly a half dozen handles of Turian Brandy, (nearly, because the sixth had been opened sometime before the Normandy brought in the cavalry to Earth; a quarter of it was missing—presumably Tali,) and a few Turian wines and ales. Ultimately, the levos ended up crash landing with a lot more alcohol than the two amino-dextros who had been on board, however, since the levos felt that being here meant that they survived, which meant that they also somehow survived the war, which meant that they were all lucky sons of bitches, which meant that they should drink, because at least they were alive, and could still get drunk—and for the first few nights, _really_ drunk. The first week on Planet Normandy was actually quite pleasant then.

Joker did something half-between a laugh, and half-between a sort of scoffing sound that signified his disapproval, but also showed that even he could still, in spite of the circumstances—being marooned here and all— find humor in the situation.

_Really should of paced ourselves. _

Some of the civvies are probably alcoholics themselves, or have a history of alcoholism, which, according to Jeff's own mother's interpretation of the word, still makes them, and will forever make them—at least in her eyes—alcoholics. Hell, some of them probably were. Or if anything, they were made to be.

Most of civvies they found were on the ground in the first place, holed up with the surviving members of Team Hammer, fighting for their survival, as one could imagine. The bulk of them had been found hiding amidst the ruins of Parliament, living in constant fear the incessant cross-fire or the occasional piece of wayward shrapnel ricocheting off British stone.

Speaking of Team Hammer, Jeff's eyes caught the silhouette or Major Coats in his peripheral vision as he skirted the edge of the encampment, coming from the direction of the Normandy.

_But why oh why did we have to pick **him** up too..._

He was looking south towards the tropical lowlands that sloped down on a largely cleared out section of brush that carries the semblance of something as close to a road as one could get here, until it led into a thick jungle as the incline became more leveled, creating a canopy that stretched off into the distance, ending at the dull-tipped mountains on the horizon, but stretching out before that like a perfectly made bed.

"Coats," Joker said dryly. Jeff didn't trust the man. There was something off about him, regardless of how well he got along with Anderson during their time organizing the London Resistance. Jeff had always been a great judge of character. True, regardless of your character, the only notable exception being Tali, for some reason (Joker didn't know exactly why himself), Joker was good at treating everyone equally. He was equally sarcastic and dry as the Mojave to everyone without bias. Except Tali, anyways. However, contrary to the well-held belief that Joker dislikes everyone equally, even Joker couldn't act his usual self around Coats. Something about the man put him on edge. He found himself often holding his breath around him, not noticing until his body would remind him.

And a little red flag in Joker's head would go off whenever the smell of man's aura blew downwind. Obviously, Joker couldn't see the man's "aura," or smell it either, for that matter. He wasn't radioactive, but the mood he carried with him—the atmosphere— Jeff couldn't put his finger on it, but it felt as if the world got just _that_ much colder when the man was around—and it would stay like that even after he left. It was as residual as some of the sap that naturally drips from these trees here on this damned planet. It lingered… you couldn't wash the stench off you…

_Out damn'd spot! Out I say!_

"Flight Lieutenant," he said, almost curtly as he passed without actually looking at Jeff, but keeping his gaze fixed on the south,and walked down the incline, until he disappeared into the brush. Jeff didn't like the man enough at all to throw a fit about him going off alone—nobody else probably would either. "Hunting," he says when we ask him where he's going, and he never gets back until a few hours at least past nightfall, he only brings back so much game. Usually we never see it, either: either going unmentioned to the rest of us fighting off our own hunger at camp, or sometimes he comes back so late that no one even sees him arrive. Sometimes he does arrive, either before dusk or just 3 or so hours shy of dawn, with nothing at all. "Hunting" Jeff's ass. His eyes bore into the foliage where he last was, hoping a small animal killed him both in the most indescribably painful and embarrassing way possible. It was the most he could do or hope for, having lost access to the extra-net, and consequently, his Louvre-sized collection of extra-net bookmarks (all of which are completely legal in Council Space, Jeff will assure you) were not at his disposal. If only he could just upload some prime-time footage capturing the intimacy only experienced between a farm animal—a horse, for example—and some poor British chap who just so happens to even look like the Major—and Jeff was pretty sure he'd have that at his disposal... if he didn't have to lose the ship and the extranet with it by trying to out-run the intergalactic space-gun weapon of death. AKA The Crucible.

And now Jeff's whole nature of existence was a crucible.

A crucible of boredom. Without his ship—without the Normandy—

What was Jeff then? What could he do? The only thing he had committed to for almost half a year was to grow his beard.

Joker paused, subdued by the thought. His beard was truly a man after his own heart. Or a beard. Still, it provided some small novelty to mood and outlook.

Then again, it was only his beard. And it was probably indicative of him being bored out of mind that he was cheering himself up because over these six months, he kept looking more like Samuel or Grizzly Adams.

_Samuel Adams... Oh man, what I'd do for a crisp, cold beer right now. _

At the thought, Joker cleared his throat. The desire for a drink had stuck around with almost all the survivors of levo-chirality, having binged drink to... well, excess—put simply, anyways. Joker's thoughts were pulled to a hazy image of a man on his bathroom floor, trying with little success to eat a hamburger that his daughter is essentially feeding him while he goes on making everyone's day. Joker was pretty sure that that video's almost a hundred years old at this point, but only ends up proving that old Chinese proverb that he who eats while drunk on his bathroom floor will live on forever in the hearts and minds of the people who shared in the burden of taking the time to laugh gratuitously at said drunk person's expense.

For that reason, alcoholics were some of the best humanitarians Jeff had ever known. He took a look around the encampment, specifically at the civvies, who looked like at this point, they were willing to risk the Turian Brandy, and just waiting for someone to propose the idea first. If only they had brought a book to read, or a Gameboy—whatever that's supposed to be, anyways.

At least their wives are somewhere else—separated by thousands of light years from these old souls—these humanitarians!

_Hoorah! Somebody give these men an obituary to read, while I go grab the brandy, and maybe some defibrillators from the med-bay—and if I don't come back in five minutes, then you meet me there in ten before I drink this whole damn handle by myself! Thank bio-diversity for making it possible for me to commit suicide by getting shit-faced first. Ah. What a world!_

"Okay. That's it. I'm gonna go make a noose from my beard now and um... Oh. That's a might fine tree to hang myself from! It'll be like Christmas! Christmas in the Jungle! We've got fun and—"

"—and work to do, Jeff." Came EDI's voice from the chassis that acted as the avatar of his mom/girlfriend/reason becoming an alcoholic, or at least would be, if the civilians hadn't beaten the Flight Lieutenant with the balsa bones to the goddamn bar on the crew deck.

"It's the CREW deck EDI. For the CREW—like me, and you—but mostly me! Oh please tell me you have a cold one. Or an option to—like one of those vending machines with all the different flavor options—except for beer! Wait, no! Make that both! I'll have a grape of anything, but GOD help you if it's diet, and barrel of mead to let my beard soak in for a while. And a issue of National Geographic, but nothing too modern. No repurposed bunny-rabbits, or kangaroos the Reapers attached cannons to because they ran out of Ravagers to send after us."

"Jeff..." EDI began.

"What? Is it the barrel of mead? Come on EDI, I thought you were resourceful! "And if it's the National Geographic, I'm pretty sure I saw somebody selling newspapers and magazines and toilette paper down near the jungle somewhere. He didn't get eaten by a lion, did he? The Major keeps using all the toilette paper; he's taking it from the lady's room these days I here. Funny... that door never opens for me... You ever heard of the two sheet rule, EDI?"

"Jeff..." she continued, activating her "I AM YOUR MOTHER" parameters. He always liked him more as the "I AM YOUR REASON FOR BEING AN ALCOHOLIC" setting. Hadn't seen the girlfriend part though for a while.

_It's not because of the beard, is it? _

"Jeff..."

"Oh, that's me right? Sorry, I was trying to remember what intoxication felt like. You know those limeys went and not only drank our entire stock of alcohol, but also lost our ONLY deck of cards to? We can't even play poker anymore, and I have even less excuses for taking my clothes off! By the way, where's that barrel I asked for? My beard would find it to be mighty kind of you if you could just whet his whistle."

"There's a whistle in your beard?"

"Also a small nest too. Baby birds hatched this morning. Turns out I'm a mother, EDI! And mother's can't raise their children without alcohol EDI. They need _Mucho-Beer-o...Oh yes, mi gusta._"

"I didn't know you could spoke Spanish."

"What's Spanish?"

"It originates from Latin; tracing it's etymological heritage back to—"

"It's all Greek to me, EDI."

"No, it's Spanish."

The light moved over the canopy, breaking over the foliage and getting into Joker's eyes, causing him to squint. Not to mention, he could feel a headache creeping up on him that, if anything, would make for a good enough excuse to get messed up medicinally in the med bay.

_Maybe Chakwas still has some Serrice Ice... and an asprin. Even basic cable?_

"Ugh, I think I'm turning Japanese... Damn sun."

EDI did not respond this time, the saying having gone completely over her head, but she obviously had more pressing matters to discuss.

"Jeff, I'd like you to follow me back to the Normandy. There's something I'd like to show you."

"Jesus EDI, buy me some flowers first. I saw somebody selling flowers earlier out somewhere in the jungle, cutting daisies with a machete that he also used to kill small adorable animals and forest critters. Like puppies, or the Easter Bunny! He didn't get eaten by a lion too, did he? Or was it the rabbit? Oh god, now the Easter Bunny's stalking through the jungle, the blood of some poor urchin on his blade, who only wanted to sell flowers so he could go to school and learn how to be a taxidermist. The Easter Bunny, man... DREAMCRUSHER."

EDI just looked at Jeff this time. She was giving him the _eye_.

_ASSUMING CONTROL OF BEING YOUR MOTHER._

_YOU CANNOT RESIST..._

"Get your creaky shins into the war room, Flight Lieutenant, and be careful on your way down. The sight of you on your knees would..." she looked back to the civvies, "...would scare the children."

...

...

...

"That was a joke."

"Yeah? Well... your jokes suck!"

Joker looked to the "children;" the civvies.

"And the children suck harder! I'm not even sure they're mine!

Have you seen their teeth? No child of mine would dare bring those into my house!"

Joker saw one chap shuffling through the missing deck of cards from the crew longue, looking for a missing ace—that bastard. If his teeth weren't English already, Jeff was sure he'd make them even... _more_ English. But for now...

"Hey you! Give me that! You think this is England? Hmm? You know, where you can get away with this kind of shit! Well it's not! Look around—that's not Parliament, which is good—BECAUSE PARLIAMENT SUCKED- THIS IS THE JUNGLE. WE'VE GOT FUN AND GAMES, BUT SADLY, NO ALCOHOL. YEAH. LET THE CRIPPLE GET THE BACKWASHED BATARIAN SHARD ALE. WHILE YOU BLOKES SIP CHAMPAIGN AND CAVIER! I **DESPISE **BATARIAN SHARD ALE"

"AND YOU TOOK THE ONLY DECK OF CARDS THAT PROBABLY WE WILL EVER SEE FOR THE REST OUR LIVES. DO YOU WANT TO TRAVEL A METRIC FUCK TON OF LIGHT YEARS TO GET ANOTHER DECK OF CARDS FROM A CVS?

OR IS THERE NO CVS IN ENGLAND?

WELL THAT WOULD EXPLAIN A LOT THEN."

"Well, we did have a Walgreens in my..."

"FUCK WALGREENS."

...

...

"GOD MY BEARD IS **DRY. GARRUS**. WHERE'S THE BRANDY YOU SLOB? I GOT YOUR CAUSE OF THUNDER, RIGHT HERE."

...

Joker walked past the bridge, almost headed instantly down to the CIC, but instead stopped and remembered something. Going to the controls for the Normandy, which have been generally been unresponsive since first crashing, Joker remembered that, since playing cards was pretty stupid anyways (except for Gold fish, Jeff loved Gold fish,) he remembered he'd put the ace of spades under the flap of his personal mirror. Cards always bored Jeff, but he always felt a certain affinity with the Ace of Spades. Now he knew why. And then Jeff noticed something from the corner of his eye as he began to walk was under the controls, propped up against the wall, as if was meant to stay hidden from someone who shouldn't know it's there. Jeff had know idea if/when or even why he stashed it, but if it was what he thought he was, he would either cry, or go yell the civvies some more... Probably both.

It was what he thought it was. The face of man with a beard almost as beautiful as his own stared at him: called to him.

And Samuel Adams and Joker lived happily ever after, which was about... 7 minutes or so.

And Joker took pleasure in not recycling.

It would stay on dashboard, next to what used to be a standard Hawaiin girl bobble-head, but later striped of her head and replaced with a Bobble-head of Saren Arterius that had a handle-bar mustache etched in with an EXPO marker, rocking the Ukulele all the while.

And Joker would give back the civvies that cards too. Eventually.

After a certain part of the male anatomy became one of the card's new suits.

EDI was in the war room... but she could wait. This would only take a minute, anyways. Then he'll just give it back to them and...

Joker looked at the ace of spades, struggling to reach a verdict.

Then he took it, made the alteration, and stepped through the airlock outside.

"A spade is a shovel in England, right? But your shovels don't really look like this do they? See that there? What looks like Mickey Mouse ears? Don't those kind of resemble... Hey, it kind of looks like a penis! What about that? Hey guys?"

...

"I think my mother wants to see me in the war room, mates. I should go."

Joker didn't even try to not laugh on the way back to the ship, which was good.

Because what EDI had to show him was _no_ laughing matter.

It was Admiral Steven Hackett, waiting for him, while he was drawing the male anatomy over a $2 deck of cards.

And Jeff knew then that he would fail mention that little... tidbit.

All the same though, Jeff wouldn't wait for the Admiral to say something first.

"Admiral Hackett, you're speaking through the... Quantum entangler? How did you get it to work? What happened? And where's Shepard? Is he okay? Did he make it out alive?"

"Yes, Flight Lieutenant; it's damned good to see you. As for quantum entangler, I'm afraid you'll have to ask EDI about that one. She's been rather busy while, as I here, the rest of you are celebrating?"

"_Were _celebrating. The civilians got... overzealous. But what's going on? How did you know we were still alive?"

"I didn't. But I knew someone who was looking for you—who wont stop looking for you. Not until he finds you."

"Is it Shepard?"

"Indeed... And I fear we might already be too late."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

**BROKEN HEART**

_Author's note: Within the past few days, I've recently begun working in collaboration to co-author a book that will be intended to be the first in a trilogy. The concept of it is original, and possesses a certain novelty that I cannot allow to go stale due to this project, especially since I truly believe it could actually turn out to be something, and really secure my place as an author, as well as for my co-writer, who I am lucky enough to live in the same house as, as it really allows us to make real progress in good time. Regardless of which, I have not forgotten about this fanfic. I'm just incredibly busy, and almost always writing, unless I'm at school, or working on my white board to brainstorm. In a nut shell, I'm incredibly busy—yesterday, I was writing from 6:30 in the morning to 4:20 in the afternoon, and brainstormed for another 3 or 4 hours later in the evening. Ultimately, I'll be trying to find the middle ground so I can complete this story, as well as take the time to make sure I do it well so as to assure that the initial vision I had isn't neglected through me just trying to finish this story so I can work on my book. _

_Anyways, I'm done talking. Enjoy the read—_

_And did somebody ask for a large order of Tali along with a Mountain Dew?_

_Well, I drank the Mountain Dew, _

_BUT... HERE'S TALI!_

_P.S.: Hope you got the movie reference _

"What do you mean, 'He's _alive_?'"

Tali couldn't believe what she was hearing. She simply couldn't. She wouldn't- but not because she didn't want to.

She simply knew the pain of a broken heart far too well at this point.

She had lost him once, and spent two whole years—the longest of her life, it felt like- believing that he was dead, and trying to move on with her life. She knew then that if she didn't try to cauterize the wounds his "death" had caused her heart to endure, those same wounds would have been allowed to fester like some infestation, and eventually break her. She knew, even then, that Shepard wouldn't have wanted that for her. He hadn't known about her feelings then, and she hadn't known about his, but their friendship had been enough of an influence on her at the time to grant perspective. He wouldn't have wanted her to waste her life mourning him. But she did—at least for a time, anyways. It was impossible not to. She just wasn't ready to let go then.

And she wasn't ready to let go now either, but she wasn't ready to fool herself into thinking that there might still be a chance for them to...

Be _together_.

Tali's heart jumped at the prospect—at merely the words themselves. _Together. _With no Reapers trying to kill them, and no war left to fight, or a galaxy to save, or would even need saving: because they'd already saved it.

Now the only thing keeping them from each other was just _distance_

It seemed like such a trite thing at this point considering all the other things which inhibited their relationship before—which usually were trying to kill them.

But the space between—however many light years that was—was killing her, now that she knew he was alive. Why would they lie to her?

They _better _not be lying to her.

"What I believe Jeff is trying to say Tali'Zorah is—"

"I don't give a _damn_ what "Jeff" is _trying_ to say EDI!" Tali screamed, "I want an answer! What do you mean he's—I saw him run to that damn conduit! I stood there, confused and unable to do a damn thing while the man I loved ran off into that _death trap_. I _loved_ him—_**loved **_him."

Tali was crying now, but unaware, as a torrent of all her varying emotions buffeted her about like a ship at sea in a storm.

Six months of hating.

Six months of crying.

Six months of hurting.

And six months of pain- indescribable pain.

Like each morning she woke up her heart was _breaking. _

For the dreams she had always had _him_.

And every night, she watched him die—and she'd wake up screaming.

She should have _been there!_ It wasn't _fair!_

" I should have been there, with him—he deserved that much! Instead, I couldn't even _see _him—no! I couldn't even look for him— I couldn't even look down into the incline—I had to be restrained in the damn rover, because you knew I would go after him if I could: and I would have! Keelah, I **would have!** Why did—Just... Just how _**could you!**_"

Tali's knees gave out from under her, and she fell to floor; sobbing. Crying harder and more bitterly than anyone they'd ever seen, even after such a terrible, terrible war. And it was a terrible war. They had won, or so it seemed. But who could actually say they felt like they actually _won_ anything?

Who here actually felt like a winner?

Tali sure didn't: she would die here, whenever she ran out of nutrient paste.

Turian nutrient paste.

And here Joker had been bitching about beer? Joker felt sick. He wanted to do something—anything—and not be his typical jack-ass self, but he had no idea what to do; he almost felt like crying with her, but he dared not. He had no right: nothing to cry about. Not even his Vrolik's syndrome could compare. Not this time.

But he still could do nothing. He was frozen in place.

So when Garrus came out of nowhere, and kneeled besides her, trying to have her sit up so she could look at him and just let it all out, Joker could have just _kissed _him, but ultimately thought better of it. All the same though,

_Thank God for Garrus._

"Hey, come here... That's okay. It'll be alright. Just let it out. Let it all out."

"Oh Garrus... I want to go _home_. Please just take me _home—_ I can't stay here anymore. I don't _want_ to stay here anymore."

"We all want to go home Tali. We all do.. We'll get back in our time. You'll see."

"But I want to go home _**now**__. _I'm suffocating just _being _here. Please... I can't... Oh _Keelah..."_

Tali stopped trying to speak, and simply buried her head in her Garrus' chest and shed tears that needed out. She was glad Garrus was here. She needed a friend more than anything or anyone—she needed _this_. This needed this to come out—like airing one's laundry- but having Garrus here made it easier. She felt less embarrassed and less like a specimen on the floor and more like she was amongst friends- ones that cared, and were worried about her, and felt just as bad seeing her like this as she did for _having _to be seen like this by them, as embarrassing as it was. It needed to come out—all of it. Just one, good, long last cry.

And so they let her finish. Even EDI, who probably realized that she was the only other person in the room who was a woman, or at least resembled one, came down and kneeled next to Tali to pat her back and put her hand on her shoulder—albeit, somewhat awkwardly— in an attempt to console her.

"Would you like for me to send Jeff to go fetch the brandy from the longue, Tali'Zorah?" EDI asked with a somewhat sultry tone in her voice, "We can have him crawl through the air-ducts for-" she turned her head slowly to face the Flight Lieutenant in question, "our... amusement."

If you could have heard a pen drop, then the sound of Joker's nervous gulp was like someone had dropped an atomic bomb.

"That was a joke- right?"

EDI smiled sadistically.

"No, Jeff."

Joker looked to both Tali and Garrus, as to illicit a customary, '_Oh, that's not necessary, but I appreciate the suggestion,' _sort of thing, and even hoping that Tali's own history of crawling through the ducts of the Collector Base would win him some sympathy from someone who knew how much it sucked to be on your knees like that for that long, especially if you've got balsa-bones like Jeff's. Surely they would take his handicap into consideration, and not send a cripple into the ducts.

Right?

Garrus shook his head: he'd have no part in this decision, or in their shenanigans. He looked to Tali, and so did EDI

It took Tali a second to realize they were both deferring to her judgment.

Tali shrugged. Joker hoped that qualified as a no but—

To EDI, it sufficed well enough as a "_Yes, send that cripple bitch down there on his knees because I'm real messed up son of a bitch like that and enjoy that kind of sick, twisted shit n' stuff- Almost better than NASCAR! Hell yeah, pound that shit, robot! Woo-damn!"_

But that might have been painted just a _little_ bit by Jeff's perception. All the same though...

"That mean's _now. _So be a dear, and...

_Oh you __**EVIL **__woman._

"FINE. I'M GOING. GOD DAMN IT,

SOMEBODY GET ME A SCREWDRIVER."

No response. Tali shrugged again.

_She's doing that on purpose! That bi—_

_AND I ALWAYS SAID SHE WAS THE ONLY I DID LIKE._

"Jeff..."

"FINE. I'LL GET THAT TOO."

Tali and Garrus were standing outside the Normandy now, leaning against the hull casually, and looking up into the stars that slowly began to dot the sky as the sun was pulled into the Horizon. Shepard was somewhere up there, and both of them felt with certainty that he was looking up—presumably from Earth-, where ever he was, and thinking the same thing. It was as if the stars themselves conveyed this message to both parties from both sides of the galaxy, and Tali and Garrus were comforted as they shared this sense of knowing—this cosmic _hunch_—and hoped Shepard on his end knew as well and was comforted as they were. Since Shepard had stepped out of that rover back in London, and Harbinger landed-his glowing yellow gaze, a dark, foreboding smear on the horizon—and Shepard ran off, presumably thinking that his squad was following him close behind—(why else would run off with them?) they had not been that three man squad that had dropped down on Ilos and raced to the conduit, took down Saren and his Geth on the Citadel, destroyed the abomination of the Human-Reaper at the collector base, and fought through the fire that had forged them best friends, and, in Tali's case, lovers...

But here the stars gave them the closest thing they could have to a reunion at this point, and that, for now, was good enough. For now.

But they would find him, or more likely, knowing their old Commander, he would find them. And they would watch the sky each night from this day on, waiting for the signs.

The signs that Shepard was coming.

And he was going to take them home.

"We thought you were dead, John..." Garrus said, as if he were actually speaking to Shepard, but contemplating something, clearly. "I wanted to see with my own eyes, but I couldn't... You told me to keep her safe, so I stayed there... on the rover... And then they said, over the radio..."

"Garrus?"

Garrus' eyes shot up with a fire that she hadn't seen since Shepard had taken him to "kill" Sidonis. It was unjustified then, and Shepard had taught him that well... but here...

The flames in his eyes burned with a righteous fire.

"The _**radio. That bastard!"**_

"Garrus, what're you getting on about?" Tali asked, her concern evident.

"The radio, Tali! The only person who supposedly had "seen" Shepard die—

The only reason why I didn't at least make sure... Why I didn't at least look and see if..."

_God... they're all gone..._

_Did we get anyone to the beam?_

_Negative, our entire force was decimated..._

_It's too much! We need to regroup—fall back to buildings!_

_Pull back, pull back!_

"You mean..."

"Yes, Tali."

...

"That bastard Coat's going to die tonight."

"Garrus, I know you're angry—I am too, but still, we need to—"

"Get inside the Normandy, Tali- _now._ And let EDI know to keep the civvies inside the encampment. No one leaves tonight, for whatever reason. Got it?"

A light rain started to set in. It would pick up eventually. Might even be a storm looming. Garrus walked over to a hollowed out stump where someone had left a machete, presumably from the last hunting party. The hunting partys were always made up of two men: someone who took point to carve a path through the rank jungle growth, and someone to cover from the rear with one of the gun's from the ships armory. The machete's they'd made themselves, and only had two for the time being, as finding the metal for a suitable blade wasn't easy, as they're weren't really well equipped for cutting stone, so they'd only made them from rock that already possessed a similiar shape. There was a third, but it was lost when a hunting party hadn't returned one night. So if one was right here, and the other one wasn't...

That meant Coats was out somewhere, in the jungle.

The rain picked up, coming down fairly hard now.

Garrus grabbed the machete, and yanked it out from the stump in a clean, fluid motion. Holding it now to his side, and staring into lowlands below, he began to roll the hilt around in his hand.

"I'm coming for you Coats. And I'm not looking for a Q&A...

I'm going to _hunt you down... _You_ snake."_

And with that, Garrus began to walk south, along the sloping path that lead down, until the ground leveled and was fairly even, and stopped at the entrance to the jungle, looking up to see those dull-capped mountains at the jungle's flank.

Coats' hunting grounds.

Garrus took his machete, and hacked away—disappearing from sight.

And the game was afoot.

And the rain began to fall even harder.

And harder.

And harder.

...

...

...

...

...

Shepard looked up at the stars from one of the rocks sticking out of the Broken Promontory, ignoring the shards of glass floating in the water, as was usually one of the main attractions of this place. Shepard was far more attracted tonight, however, with this sort of... hunch- if you wanna call it that- that while he was looking up into the sky, his squad was doing the same, and they knew that he knew, and the other way around for them as well. It could just be wishful thinking- it probably was just wishful thinking- but Shepard had always learned to trust his gut. Something told him they were watching, and he chose to believe, despite that he knew there was no way he could possibly know such a thing. And then he felt something different- a feeling that something bad was about to happen, or even if not, that he needed to move quick. Originally he was going to wait until morning to move in, but he would do it tonight- he had wasted enough time, and he had to take more of it because he knew that Admiral Hackett had seen him the other day.

The day he broke into the Vancouver Alliance HeadQuaters, where he was held under house arrest due to his actions in the Aratoht system, where he had to destroy the Alpha Relay to postpone the inevitable invasion. He goal was simple, yet a death sentence if he was caught; even for a legend such as he. After the destruction of other forms of communications- ones that weren't nearly as expesnive as quantum entanglement- breaking into an Alliance facility to use one of its state-of-the-art quantum entanglers, of which, only few actually survived the war with Reapers, was considered treason.

Shepard knew Hackett had seen him the other day, and that's why he wouldn't try to go back there again. He doubted Hackett would arrest him, given that he knew what he would then have to do Shepard if he had caught him in such an implicating situation, but Shepard wouldn't test the integrity of the Admiral- he knew Hackett was do his duty first.

So, although he wouldn't hit up the Vancouver Alliance HQ again, that didn't mean he wouldn't try to use any one of the other quantum entanglers that the Alliance is still privy to- and he knew exactly where that would be: where it all began- or ended.

It was the last place he had seen any of his friends- his team.

But it would be the first place he would begin.

He would reach the Normandy. He would find his crew. He would bring his people home- or die trying.

He didn't plan to leave until tomorrow, but the feeling in his gut behooved him otherwise. And Shepard trusted his gut.

He looked up from the Broken Promontory one last time up to the night sky.

_Soon guys._

_I'll be there soon. _

And with that, he slung his knap-sack over his shoulder, and walked from the old gnarled finger of the Burrard Bridge, pointing west into English Bay, and walked south towards the noise of Granville bridge, where cars were still stacked up, even late in the evening.

He would miss the Burrard, and the Broken Promontory, and the shards of glass that floated on the surface of the foamy, detergeant-polluted water, but not the Granville, or its incessant sounds of honking horns or drivers shouting and swearing and honking their horns some more, and he realized this more and more as he walked south to the Granville, and then eventually left it behind him, walking east into downtown, where he would turn north eventually and walk up the eastern side of the downtown peninsula, towards the Harbor.

There, he would stow himself away on a ship,

Which would set sail for London the following morning.

**END OF PART 1.**

From Author:

Leave reviews if you like where this is going! And if not...

Just leave me alone so I can cry.

No, seriously. Please submit a review.

Or else we wont fishing this weekend.

Is that you want? DIDN'T THINK SO.

I LOVE YOU.


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